Catchy title, don’t you think?
Moving right along.
This weekend we had some friends over for a happy hour. Oh how I love the happy hours. Really.
Outside. Sunshine, warmth. Chalk, bikes, bubbles. The kids play. The kids eat. The adults talk. The adults eat. The margaritas flow. Good times. Sigh…
Where was I? Oh, right. Happy hour. So we’re all enjoying each others’ company and I totally missed the front end of this conversation but I did manage to hear the “…that’s a pink job” come out of the mouth of one of the men in our midst. Let’s just call him Mr. Pink from now on. :)
(Hi Mr. Pink! Are you reading this?)
So yes, he said that pink job thing. (I wish I could remember what job it was that he called “pink.”) Anyhoo, there was a discussion that ensued, and I don’t really remember all of it. Or any of it. Except the pink comment.
The idea is, I guess, that some jobs are “pink” and some jobs are “blue.” Now, in this house, I don’t believe there are any pink or blue jobs. There are jobs that I prefer to do myself for one reason or another, and there are jobs that The Man prefers to do himself. Some jobs require strength that I don’t have. Like mowing the lawn. The Man likes to mow the lawn. I concede that to him. (If there IS a blue job, mowing the lawn is it, imho).
So I’m just wondering. Are there pink jobs and blue jobs? Or am I just kidding myself?
Oh, and we must all overlook Mr. Pink’s unfortunate position on pink jobs. Because he makes the nice margaritas. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want those to go away. And also, he’s really a pretty nice guy.
In other news, one of the jobs ’round here has been claimed by Henry. It is the “beer stocker.” He has made it his number one priority to make sure the frigo is always fully stocked with beer. I caught him doing it one day. I walked into the kitchen and nearly tripped over a case of beer on the floor. I wondered what the four little hoodlums had been doing with it, until I realized Henry was standing there, unloading beer from it and putting it in the frigo. One small step for Henry, one giant leap for Mama. Next I’m going to teach him how to pour a beer without a lot of head. I’m kidding, of course. He needs to know how to frost the mug before pouring.
At what age do the table manners kick in? Seriously, when?
Ella throws her drinks. Every single meal. Every snack, every meal. Everytime. You should see her. It’s rather comical if you’re not actually the one living through it. She takes her sippy cup, turns it upside down and sucks furiously on it, and then chucks it across the table when she’s had enough. I don’t get it. Could she not set it down nicely?
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